Somebody's Watching Me

I have a pretty constant routine every Tuesday and Wednesday. I leave work, go home and change and grab my gear, and dash off to uechi-ryu class. After class, I head across the street to the hallowed halls of the local for a bite to eat.

Dinner itself is part of this routine. It is always meat (either pork chops or steak tips) and potatoes (baked with lotsa sour cream thankyouverymuch). Though I usually have a salad as an appetizer (unless the soup of the day sounds good – Tuesday night was Scottish Pork…mmmmm) my order is always ‘hold the vegetables.’

Last night was no different. Sonny the Den Mother/bartender plunked a pint of icewater and a High Life in front of me and took my order.
“Hold the vegetables Dan?”
“C’mon Sonny, do you really need to ask?”

I turned my attention to the ball game on TV, and my drinks. The salad came and went. Shortly thereafter, the waitress approached my barstool, plate in hand.
“Are you Dan?”
“Yup,” I answered, wondering what the grin on her face was all about. I took the plate from her hands and set it on the bar in front of me. There were two lovely pork chops, a baked potato, sour cream…and a white bowl with a note tucked inside.

“This is where the vegetables would be, if Dan cared about his health. Que sera, sera.
Mgmt.”

Apparently Mike the Cook thinks I need to eat more veggies.

This is not the first instance in which I’ve received a mysterious note. Some time ago I went to see Attack of the Clones. (Yes, I know, a terrible movie – but that’s irrelevant here.) It was a last minute decision by the other party involved and I, on a Wednesday night. We wound up seeing the last show. There were few cars in the parking lot when we arrived, and practically none when we exited the movie. But there was a note tucked under my windshield wiper.

“Go home you lousy drunk.”

Now, I knew it had to be from one of my friends. What puzzled me was, which one of them would be way the hell out in suburbia on a late Wednesday night? By all rights anyone capable of recognizing my car and fucking with me by leaving that note, should be far away, most likely belly up to the bar with beer in hand.

It turned out to be Bunny. Of course. Not the first time he decided to screw with me. And not the worst time either.

But I think the Story of the Silver Fox is one for another day.